The Man Who Gathered the Clouds

One afternoon, as mist rolled down the mountains, a poet arrived at the tea house. He bowed to the Daoist master and took his seat, his face troubled.

“Master,” he said, “I have spent years refining my poetry, seeking the perfect words to capture truth. Yet, the more I write, the less satisfied I feel. The words slip away, never quite expressing what I mean. How can I grasp the essence of things?”

The master poured tea, watching the steam rise. Then he pointed toward the sky.

“Look at the clouds,” he said. “If you were to climb the mountain and try to gather them in your hands, what would happen?”

The poet shook his head. “They would dissolve at my touch.”

The master nodded. “Yet, when you do nothing, the clouds come to you, filling the sky.”

The poet frowned. “Then you mean I should stop writing?”

The master chuckled. “Not at all. But do not force the words. Let them drift to you like the clouds. When the sky is empty, do not chase them—simply wait. When the sky is full, do not try to hold them—simply witness.”

The poet sat in thought, watching the mist swirl through the open-air tea house. For the first time in years, he felt no need to write, and in that stillness, a perfect poem began to form in his mind.

The master sipped his tea. “Ah,” he said, “a clear sky is not empty—it is only waiting.”

Outside, the clouds gathered effortlessly.